Back in New York...

Last week I traveled back to the motherland.   I strolled through the West Village, up and down Bleeker Street as I'd done so many times before when I called the city my home.  I gazed into the Cynthia Rowley shop window and lamented the boarded doors of the corner book store across from Magnolia Bakery.  Will there come a day when city blocks full of niche shops simply cease to exist?  Where will the Sex in the City tour buses reroute through?

I met friends with new babies for lunch at Bar Pitti on Sixth Avenue, where the waitress shook her head from side to side while simultaneously blowing air through her lips whenever we chose a dish that didn't meet her standards.  By the end of the interaction, she had ordered all three of our meals plus appetizers.  We enjoyed every bite.  Eggplant Parmesan for lunch- now that's New York!   

Perhaps the most quintessentially New York part of my brief stay was the run I ventured out on the morning after my arrival.  I had arranged to meet my friend Lindsey, a native NY actress forced to declare her primary residency in Los Angeles so that she might enjoy a future that included food, for an early morning run and an iced coffee- a favorite Big Apple activity.  The hundred plus degree, excessively moist weather meant the only livable outdoor hours were before 10am.

I met Lindsey on the corner of Hudson and Bleeker, and off we went toward the West Side Highway running path.  As we made our way downtown along the river, through the pathways lined with tall reeds and dark green brush, we chatted happily about Lindsey's new love and the energy of a New York summer.  God, it was so good to be back, even with heat so high you felt like you were in a frying pan.  We came upon a series of nearly empty benches, it was Friday morning and most people were toiling away at work.  We split the benches and continued our happy chat.  A lone woman sat reading at the far end.  As we approached, her gaze drifted up to meet mine and she suddenly burst out, "Stop talking!  Stop talking!  Shut up!"  Odd?  Yes.  But somehow comforting.

This next interaction was the exact opposite of comforting.  We rounded the corner and saw a woman, who resembled the SNL character Pat, staring at us from a distance.  She proceeded to reach her hand into her pants.  Ummmmm, was she doing what I think she was doing?  Yup.  Odd and extremely unsettling, yet unfortunately still typical.

After that, we picked up the pace, sprinting ahead to the most familiar place we West Villagers know, the coffee shop.  Once there, we noticed that the new shop took only cash.  Products of our increasingly electronic environment, we had bank cards.  Yet, in a New York twist, the owner and barista gave us the iced coffees on the house.  Now that's comforting and very typical of my beloved NYC and its people.

On our way home while crossing the West Side Highway to return to our respective temporary West Village abodes, we encountered an angry soccer mom clearly not used to driving in the city behind the wheel of her minivan.  She had ignored the 8 foot wide crosswalk and decided to stop her car clear across our path.  Like the benches, we split it and I walked behind the van.  Bad idea.  She started backing up without checking her rear view mirror.  Why would you when you're driving in a city where pedestrians outnumber passengers 4 to 1?  In an effort to save her friend (me), Lindsey yelled "Watch where you're going!  You almost hit my friend!"  To which, the soccer mom replied, "No, you better watch where you're going!"  And then, all hell broke loose and we were in the middle of a New York brawl with a soccer mom (yes, her kids were in the back seat).  

As we walked away,  I thought to myself, "ah, it's good to be back..."  

All the Single Ladies, All the Single Ladies! Go Go Go...to the Grocery Store??

LA DATING RULE:  Add "boyfriend" to your grocery list next time you are heading to the market.

If I have said it once, I'll say it again and again until all the Westside single ladies get the message.  WHOLE FOODS on Lincoln Boulevard in Venice Beach is the place to meet Angeleno guys who are grounded enough to actually enter a grocery store in the first place.

NOTE:  The grounded male is a rare species in this part of the world.  If you are lucky enough to find one, handle with care.  He should be kept away from all things Hollywood if possible.  By inhabiting a domicile near a large body of water, in this case the Pacific Ocean, he is exposed to the more physically-active and, curiously, virtuous breeds of Angeleno men.  Do NOT under any circumstances allow him to socialize on a consistent basis with those male breeds that gravitate to the Sunset Strip in North Hollywood.  Many a grounded male has been lost, never to be seen again in that neighborhood.

Heed my advice ladies, throw on a cute sundress and head over to Whole Foods in Venice Beach as much as possible this summer.  My hairdresser has met her last 3 boyfriends there.  (She has a problem with commitment, which is another post entirely).  I promise the crowd is better than the one you'll meet bar-hopping on Abbot Kinney.  And it is light years ahead of the meat-markets in New York City's meat-packing district- my previous stomping ground.  You may have to contend with the pushy non-profit reps at every entrance and exit as well as the well-dressed homeless fellows who chill at the outdoor tables, but it'll all be worth it after you meet Mr. Adorable.

Just yesterday, I was picking up an early dinner before yoga class and while perusing the ice cream section (I see the irony), a sweet blond surfer type commented on the selection.  He was funny, I laughed, and then he went on his way.  I didn't think anything of it.

Until I arrived at the organic frozen dinner section and the blond surfer reappeared at my side.  With an endearing touch of nerves in his voice, he started "I would have kicked myself if I left without saying something.  You have a great energy about you.  Do you have a boyfriend?"  For the east coasters reading, when spoken by an Angeleno of the opposite sex "you have great energy" translates directly to "I would like to bone you, if you are into it."  As a happily spoken for woman, I replied, "Yes I have a boyfriend, but you made my day.  I'm flattered.  Thank you."

Now, I have to admit that I had my sh*t going on.  I was coming right from an audition so I had on full makeup- including mascara- which I normally skip, a short sundress, and curled hair, which is a far, far cry from how I normally look while perusing the grocery aisles.  Normal attire consists of post-yoga sweaty, unbrushed hair situated on the top of my head in an unruly bun, drenched sports bra and tank, yoga pants, and Rainbow flip-flops.  Guess how many times I've been approached in that outfit...

ZERO.

Moral of the story:  Know the game, love the game, and get your butt to that Whole Foods!  I promise better results than Match.com or any other grocery store in LA or NYC for that matter. 

Feel free to post any success stories in the comments section!

I Climbed Through My Trunk to Get into My Car This Week

Car Keys are illusive.  One minute they're here and the next they're locked in your car under the floor mat.  I'll never understand it.  And I never needed to until I moved from NYC, the mecca of public transportation, to LA, the mecca of isolated, sometimes dangerously depressing transportation.  The streets are a sea of lone drivers in a city where "car-pooling" is a dirty word.

Prior to becoming a card-carrying member of AAA, I paid someone to break into my car on at least three different occasions.  And I have no doubt that I'm selectively forgetting more than a few other unsavory situations.  The first incident that I recall occurred at a meter off Sunset Boulevard in Hollywood.  Luckily and very improbably, a tow truck drove by at precisely the same moment I kicked my tire out of sheer frustration.  For that perceptive driver, opportunity knocked.  The second time was outside of my own home.  Did I mention I don't have a spare key?  Well, I don't.  On the third occasion, I was running late to a conference.  I stopped to grab a quick coffee and voila, the car key slid off of my key chain and into the drivers seat which I had occupied only seconds before.  Alas, I was left outside of the car holding a silver key ring which carried only my house keys.  How? 

Now, I have AAA.  They're like my own personal superhero.  When I'm in trouble, I call them.

Still no spare key though.

The most recent example of AAA heroism happened just this week.  I was heading back to Santa Monica from Culver City when I noticed that my gas tank was showing one lonely glowing bar of fuel.  I decided to fill up at the Shell Station located at the busy intersection of Overland and Venice Boulevards, a few hundred yards from SONY Studios and Culver City's business district.  Light on my feet from the lingering adrenaline rush brought on by the productive meeting just a few minutes earlier, I popped out of my car and swung the door closed.  With a sprightly hop, I inserted my credit card, lifted the gas pump and pulled the lever.  Filling initiated, I began mindlessly chatting with the older gentlemen at the pump next to mine, who looked and talked a lot like Martin Scorsese.

Upon noticing that his vehicle was in fact a tow truck, a sinking feeling swallowed me whole.  What were the chances?  And better yet, where were my keys?  I dug into my pockets only to discover...

Lint.

Ugh!

Peering through the window, I caught site of my keys in the center console hiding stealthily next to my mobile phone and the wallet containing my AAA membership card.  I forced a bewildered yet flirty grin and approached the gas station attendant who was locked securely within a booth of bullet-proof and sound-proof glass.  Expecting to bat my lashes, explain the situation, and receive a hearty chuckle and HELP in return from the man in the glass box, I began confessing my plight.

To my utter surprise, he pointed out loudly (but muffled due to the glass) with clear irritation in his tone that I was blocking other cars from using gas pump #7 and just how busy his station was at lunch time on a weekday.  He gestured to the line of cars now building behind my own and pushed a cordless phone through the metal slot which connected him to his customers, waving his arm in an effort to will me to hurry up.  Without adjusting his voice as it clearly presented his state of mind, he started reciting extra-slowly for my benefit AAA's phone number, shaking his head all the while.

After being assured that AAA would be there in under 30 minutes, I noticed that Martin Scorsese- tow truck operator- and a gaggle of other older gentlemen without much else to do besides mill around a busy gas station at lunch time on a weekday were now gazing into the windows of my Honda assessing my dilemma and discussing various rescue options, none of which involved waiting for AAA.  As I got closer, Scorsese pulled from his truck a gadget that I had seen many times before, the infamous balloon pump and accompanying 3 foot wire featuring a jerry-rigged hook used to fish for keys.  Before I had time to protest, he placed the balloon between the car door and my poor Honda's already scratched body (evidence of previous fishing expeditions) and pumped.  A crevice half an inch wide was revealed.  As Scorsese started poking his wire around in my car, one of his cohorts began whispering in my ear a continuous monologue of reasons why this was a bad idea, "He's gonna ruin your car.  I'd wait for AAA.  Doesn't look like he knows what he's doing..."  After ten minutes of breath-holding and car-scratching, it was determined that due to the key's location in the center console fishing had to be abandoned. 

It was time to go in through the trunk, a strategy employed by many in the grand theft auto field.  In fact, I can now proudly say that I am fully capable of stealing a car should the situation call for it.  Add that to the list of things that didn't kill be but made me stronger!  After another ten minutes of Martin Scorsese's wire prodding around the front seat of my poor car for a motley audience of five who would gasp at his near misses, he finally manuevered the hook around the release and popped the trunk.  A round of applause ensued.  The attendant in the sound proof booth shouted something inaudible and waved his hands summoning me to get a move on.  Where was AAA?

With the trunk now open, it was my time to shine.  I pulled the handle that released the back seat, shimmied into the trunk (an extremely nerve-racking experience for someone who is claustrophobic) and crawled through the length of my Honda all Tom Cruise MI4 style.  Heaving myself into the drivers seat, I unlocked the doors and reemerged into the cool Culver City air displaying my keys proudly above my head for the five sixty-five and older men as well as that nasty gas station attendant to see.

None of whom were watching, other than Martin Scorsese- tow truck operator.  I thanked him profusely, got in my car, and drove home passing the AAA truck on the way.           

Mikey's Hug Deli Open THIS WEEKEND!

I got an email this morning from the Hug Deli.  It's baaaaaaaack....

Don't waste time debating it, just get your ass over there and check it out.  Everybody needs a hug once in awhile, even you.

MIKEY'S HUG DELI *THIS SATURDAY*
We proudly accept high-5s and fist bumps!
Fresh baked "Choc Chip Cookie Hugs" (while supplies last)!

SATURDAY, MARCH 13TH FROM 10AM to 5PM

DIREX:  From the 10W, Exit 4th Street, Turn left off Exit, Right on Pico, Left on Ocean (becomes Barnard Way) until you reach Hollister.  South of Shutters Hotel and the Pier.  Look for the yellow "Mikey's Hug Deli" booth on the sand near lifeguard station #24.

PARKING:  Metered parking, $2 public lot #5 for 2 hour parking; all day parking lot for $7. 

WHAT THE HECK:  "Mikey's Hug Deli" is an interactive art installation where peeps walk up to the counter, ring the bell, and order "hugs" from the "Hug Ambassador" behind the counter.  the menu includes "gangsta hugs", "group hugs", "bear hugs", and the infamous "long, uncomfortable hug", not to mention daily hug specials! 
it's only up every couple of months, so ya gotta hug while you can!

PRICE IS RIGHT:  Each hug "costs" 2 compliments.  NO MONEY!!

WHO DO I HUG:  fun peeps like YOU, friends, family, surfers, celebs, puppies, etc.

HUGGING STRANGERS?:  you can hug whoever you want!  the price is right! 

LET'S HUG IT OUT! 

How to Throw One Liners in LA

Rule #1:  Get CREATIVE!

Men here are...different.  And I like it!  They are, for the most part, near opposite from the investment bankers, traders, and conglomerate advertising guys who flock to the Big Apple.  LA guys are writers, actors, producers, niche advertising gurus, web entrepreneurs, studio execs (New York I-bankers cloaked in liberal beliefs), film editors, film/music video/commercial directors, animators, the list goes on...  We may be on the Left Coast but these guys definitely think, in large part, with their right brain.  So, it stands to reason that their pick-up lines will reflect accordingly.  And they do.  I speak from almost two years of experience.

Case in Point:  Just last week, a sweet, somewhat shy gent with icy blue eyes and jet-black hair who could have been the love child of Courtney Cox and Steve Buscemi (think about that for a moment) slouched over to me at a local bar- most likely on a bet- looking hesitantly determined to complete his mission.  He opened his black military style jacket and revealed an actual solid steel combination lock, much like the one pictured above.  It measured a whopping 6 inches in diameter.  No joke.  This thing belonged on the door of a bank safe, not hovering above this impish man's heart.  His goal in sight, he proceeded without a lick of confidence, "I think you may know the combination?"  Perhaps phrased as a statement his tactic would have been met with a better reception.  But it wasn't.

Now, I've heard variations of that cliche approach thrown around before both sarcastically and in earnest... but to Mr. Combination's credit, nobody has ever included a PROP in their performance of that particular one-liner until now.  To me, it showed real innovation and thus deserved some credit.  We chatted for a bit and I decided to bite for what I imagined was the second part of his bet.  He requested that I go over to his friend and ask for an autograph.  You see, the friend looked strikingly similar to James Cameron.  In fact, I thought he was James Cameron.  So, I did the love child of Cox/Buscemi one better.  I strutted over to the James Cameron doppelganger, opened my arms wide and proclaimed in mock tone, "I'm the KING OF THE WORLD!"

When approached creatively, one must respond accordingly.     

Not So Much the Hello Deli, as the HUG DELI

 Swap roast beef, swiss cheese, and potato chips for hugs, kisses, and a side order of compliments, and you've got MIKEY'S HUG DELI.  I stumbled upon it while out for a power walk on the Santa Monica Strand with a friend and in desperate need of a boost to fight off an oncoming attack of the low blood sugar gremlins that was threatening to take me into crankyville as it so often does.  Instead of the orange juice I craved, my expectations were met with a joker-sized smile from a dark haired stranger behind the counter and the realization that this hot dog stand dispensed emotional validation rather than actual physical food as the term deli might suggest (to 100% of the population).   

It works like this:

You and someone you love play the role of deli counter clerk and customer.  The customer tells the clerk exactly what he or she would like and it is the clerk's job to deliver.

You:  How can I help you?

Friend:  I would like a pat on the back.

You:  Comin' right up!

Friend:  And I want a side of emotional security, please.

You:  What's that now?

Friend:  A side of emotional security.

You:  Can you be more specific?

Friend:  You should know what that means.

You:  Not really...  (Give friend a hug)

Friend:  That's not what I meant.

You:  Okay.  You're a really great friend.

Friend:  Getting closer.

You:  This isn't PASSWORD.

Friend:  Try!

You:  I'll always have your back?

Friend:  Thank you very much.

Innovative idea.  Of course, it could only work in LA...  

Heed My Warning: What in NY is Considered Helpful, in LA might be Considered...well, OFFENSIVE

It rained in So Cal today, which was a blessing because I finally didn't feel obligated to "enjoy the weather" and was able to knock a few items off my ever-expanding TO DO list.  The usual blaring rays of sunlight yielded to storm clouds and downpours; it felt like home.  Upon seeing an opening, I made a break for it straight away.   There are only so many consecutive sunny days this New York Transplant can take before I am rendered completely unable to do work.  Rain, rain, come my way!  But don't stay longer than a week please.  ; )

My second stop of the day, following a trip to Walgreen's to have passport photos taken, was Marshalls, where my mission was simple- curtain rods.  However, no mission is simple in 10,000 square feet of post holiday, heavily reduced loot.  It was near impossible to keep my eyes on the prize; what with those red Adidas yoga pants I desperately needed, not to mention that adorable, plaid C&C button-down I missed out on a few weeks ago during a Gilt Group on-line auction that was now staring me in the face.  (If you don't know what Gilt is, I suggest googling it and signing up immediately.  The woman who founded it is a genius.)

I blacked out and came to in the pajama aisle.  Rita Wilson was on Oprah just last week proclaiming that every woman in America needed a few new sets of PJs to start the year off right.  And not only is this the beginning of a new year, but also a new decade.  Thus, it stands to reason that it is exponentially more important to get the new PJ thing taken care of ASAP.  As I began perusing the Jones New York nightgown offerings, I happened to overhear a small disagreement between a couple in the adjacent lingerie aisle about who I now believe to be was his daughter's bra size.  Apparently, the woman was making a purchase on behalf of her step-daughter, who was claiming via the mobile device attached to the man's ear to be a 34C.  However, the woman couldn't wrap her head around this bit of information, because as she said, "I am a 38B and I'm much bigger than she is."  She kept repeating, "My cup size is bigger than hers.  She can't be a 34C" going on to ask the man, "Look, don't you think I'm bigger?"  The man, clearly uncomfortable with the idea of comparing his woman's chest size to that of his daughter, replied consistently with only an embarrassed chuckle.

Now, being a 34C myself, I know how misleading the "C" part of the measurement is.  Although the cup size "C" is in theory greater than cup size "B", a 38B actually trumps a 34C, a fact that would surprise most people.  Also a fact that this woman did not yet understand.  As a New Yorker, I couldn't help but want to butt in.  I didn't.  At first...

By the time I made my way over, half an hour later, to the stacks of rugs which lined the other side of the lingerie aisle, the couple's debate was no closer to a conclusion and my desire to intervene had reached full-blown obsession status.  It was so simple!  And I had the answer to their conundrum!  The way Angelenos feel obligated to take advantage of the sun by participating in an assortment of healthy outdoor activities is the same way that New Yorkers feel obligated to butt in and straighten out someone who is unknowingly spouting a load of malarchy.  The couple's problem had become my problem.  How could I pick out a rug when their solution lay locked inside my already over-crowded head?  After much internal strife, I decided go the way of the Angeleno- isolation- and stay out of it.

Until, the woman said, "I'm getting her the 34B."

NO!  I immediately leaped into action, allowing my inner New Yorker to take the reigns after lying dormant for months.  "Look" I started, "I have to tell you something.  I'm a 34C."  My Angeleno self was now curled up in a ball on the floor.  "And you clearly have bigger boobs," I continued gesturing to the woman's chest. "It's a mystery to me too, but a 38B is actually larger than a 34C."  At this point I could have stopped.  I should have stopped.  Not just because I had already dispensed what valuable information I had, but also because the woman was obviously in a state of shock.  I marched on. "Do you want me to show you?"  Without waiting for her answer, I was unbuttoning the front of my rain coat and pushing my scarf aside to display my 34C measurements proudly for both her and her man who was standing a few feet away.  Problem solved!  Mission accomplished!

I could have sworn I was here on another mission...

By the grace of God, something, perhaps my Angeleno self tugging at my pant leg, or a sense that I had humiliated this woman in front of her significant other, stopped me.  "Sorry...I was listening to you guys--not listening but I couldn't help but overhear...I don't know...hopefully that was more helpful than hurtful."  I backed away in shame.  Now I really couldn't focus on the rug selection!  What the hell am I here for again?  My mind was barreling full steam ahead into a shame spiral.  Curtain Rods!  Must find CURTAIN RODS!  

After fifteen minutes of walking aimlessly around the store, hiding from the couple in the infant's clothing department, I began to settle down with the help of a breathing exercise my yoga instructor taught me.  My peace-loving, unintrusive, LA self was reemerging.  I returned to the rugs.  And immediately ran into the woman, who was still shopping the bras.  She smiled at me, "this is impossible."  I returned the smile, "I know!  I shouldn't have said anything.  I'm sorry.  I thought I was helping."  "Don't worry about it," and she circled back down the aisle.

Sometimes people have to figure things out by themselves.  I'm okay with that.  Sort of...

Favorite Cards Received From My Mom Back East in 2009

As it is the end of the year and more poignantly the decade, I've been going through stacks of old letters, cards, etc that various loved ones have sent to me since moving to Los Angeles.  Although they are all colorful in their own distinct way, the choice cards were penned, not surprisingly, by my mother.  I thought I would share two of her finest with you...

[on her monogrammed fuchsia stationary, upon learning that I was considering a solo trip to Argentina]
Hi Kristin,
Do not go to So. America- drug cartels are there kidnapping Americans (beheading them too!)- especially alone- who would know you were in trouble?  Please-
Love Ya!
Mom XXOO

Dear Kristin,
Can't believe it's been 30 years since that wonderful day you were born!  I remember it like it was yesterday.  You are everything we dreamed you would be and more.  We are so lucky to have you in our lives.  Thanks for all that you are- Have a wonderful birthday.  You deserve the best.
Love Always,
Mom XXXOOO
P.S. The ring is fake.

Clearly the irony is lost on her in that last one...

Happy 2010 all!  Keep them comin' Mom!